She fights back tears,
For the appearance of strength,
A façade we are all too willing to accept.
Generic laudations brought to bear
Because her shoulders can take it,
She isn’t crying right?
She fights her demons.
A silent struggle
Right before your eyes,
Do you see them?
Twisted figures called,
Uncertainty and remorse,
Bitter reprimand for all that she’s lost,
Not for being or for doing,
But for all the tiny memories never made for her forever,
In the struggle to be she who is ever steadfast provider.
She fights her isolation,
A mind set apart by responsibility,
Or is it obligation to the heart.
The heart torn from her body but still,
Holding jurisdiction of the flow of her soul,
Not wanting to alienate you with her plight,
She sits aside astride a throne invisible,
Made of her complicated existence,
And just like that throne
So too are her wounds rendered undetectable to you,
Vibrant in her alone.
© Michelle Toussaint, all rights reserved